distorted reflection
by escapedreality
Summary: Because you're two of a kind, peas in a pod if you will, and you both are well aware that the other would done the same thing had positions been switched. Dominique/Lysander.


**a/n: **Written for Aiiimy's Daily Song Challenge HPFC.

**Pairing:** DominiqueLysander  
><strong>Prompt(s):<strong> Mirror, Denim, Laughter

* * *

><p><span>distorted reflection<span>

"Well I'd never want to see you unhappy"  
>-Almost Lover, A Fine Frenzy<p>

Roxanne once told you that she'd heard from James who in turn had in from Mary Bones over in Ravenclaw that if someone was to be locked in a room with themselves, the two carbon copies would either shag or kill each other.

Now, you're not into all that Fruv- Fru- Freud (whatever the hell his name is) but this stops you and holds you in place because well, Mary may be on to something here.

Because for sixteen years and eleven months you've had a mirror image by your side.

(and well, that's the way it always seemed, didn't it?)

"Twins," he used to say as you sat on the roof with Roxy, exactly where you weren't supposed to be, "You're more my twin than Lorcan will ever be. He's a _Ravenclaw_ for crying out loud. You on the other hand, are a good little Slytherin."

"_Good?_" Roxanne would snort, "Slytherins are far from _good_, my dear Ly. Plus what does that make me anyway?"

And that's when Lysander would grab both of you around your necks and laugh that deep laugh that came from the stomach, the one you came to know he really meant.

"How does adopted sister sound?"

...

He saved you one summer, right before third year. Far before the both of you had managed to hit the height of your stupidity.

(although, being chased by a werewolf was pretty impressive, regardless)

You were run-run-running until someone's hand y a n k e d you into the dirty dusty alleyway, too long nails leaving crescent moons on your collarbone. He wants to yell at you and you want to blame him but the words don't come, do they?

Because you're two of a kind, peas in a pod if you will, and you both are well aware that the other would done the same thing had positions been switched.

...

By fifth year there's this whole shift thing going on.

(and it's all _her_ fault)

The mirror's cracking, shattering on the floor and you now have seven years bad luck on your calloused hands. Because for Salazar's sake there's no fucking way any reflection of yours would have fallen for someone as _clingy_ as Molly.

(and so what if this resentment's jealousy? You're Dominique Weasley and you don't admit things without a fight.)

You slowly realize the tape and glue are fruitless efforts, this reflection is shattered beyond repair. You're just another casualty, just another forgotten twin to roam around Lysander Scamander's peripheral vision.

(because remember Lorcan? Remember him?)

...

You retreat and fall silent, the best defense against anything. Solace is Roxanne's job, yet even with James' help the two of them have no hope of fixing you. And there's a joke, isn't there? How many Gryffindors does it take to fix a Slytherin?

Your life turns into a mess of baggy ripped denim and too much make-up, with long straightstraight hair that reaches well past your chest and a reputation growing just as long. Teddy asks you one day, asks you what happened to the cocky little Slytherin; what ever happened to the girl obsessed with Quidditch and who loved to get dirty? The one who didn't take shit from anyone?

"I still play Quidditch," you told him shortly, gesturing to the Beater's bat in the corner of the Burrow at Christmas time.

"Lily looks up to you, you know. You're her big cousin, Dom."

...

You stop, for her sake because she's eleven during your seventh year, a little first year and damn it, you just want to make her proud.

You forewent any chance at prefect long ago and Head Girl was always just a joke. You have your captain pin though and you cling to it like your life depends on it.

(and maybe it does)

Maybe Teddy was something like an intervention (not that you'll ever admit that, you're Dom Weasley after all) and maybe Roxanne and James did have an effect. Perhaps you simply grew out of a phase, a teenage funk as your mother put it.

And a ScamanderWeasley break-up may have been a boost as well.

And well, that she broke up with him only makes it that much sweeter. So perhaps it's not the kindest of you to say as much, but hey, you're a Slytherin and there are standards to be kept.

...

He comes crawling back to your make-shift family, to you and Roxy (who is even less-forgiving than you were- he broke her loyalty and that's one thing those Gryffindor's sure get hung up about). You wish you could welcome him back with open arms but it's not quite that simple. Because it's all oddly formal and it's far too long before something new crops up in place of your lost reflection.

Ly's back again but it's different- because you're never going to be the same but you can't go on without each other.

Ying and yang, it's a balance.

You're a role model, sure, but Lily isn't quite as innocent as she appears and Merlin, you're both Slytherins; the past seven years have revolved around r-e-p-u-t-a-t-i-o-n and someone needs to pick up the flag.

And Lysander has gotten into his head that he has to actually, well, _try_ this year. Lorcan is head boy and like hell Ly will sit back and be bested.

(it's a pride thing)

Yet somehow, it works because you keep him excited, involved and he well, keeps you grounded enough to finish out the year. And Roxy is there, steady as always, to pick up both of your pieces as they fall.

...

Your last summer of freedom before you take your tentative steps into the adult world is all a _rush_.

And the Firewhiskey moves fast being passed around the room and so do his hands tangling themselves in your hair, tracing circles down your back. And nothing moves faster than clothes hitting the floor, leaving a cotton trail from the door to the bed.

And between the kisses and parties, a thought buried deep in the recess of your mind begins to creep back up.

And the glass is cooling, being tempered into a new mirror.

And Mary Bones is there, spouting off psychology.

The laughter is back, his blue eyes twinkling; the theory is slowly, painstakingly, proving itself correct.

...

Even when winter dawns back home, the packed streets of Calcutta still feel sweltering. You adjust your wand in the pocket of your jeans- still baggy, still ripped: a relic of years past and better forgotten.

You turn down the narrow alley, climbing the rickety steps to the small flat you've finagled to own by yourself. Your mind is occupied with your Maman's pleas for you to return to the Burrow for Christmas. You would, you wish but the utter inconvenience of it all doesn't make the trip worth. After all, you only have three more months before you head back to England.

The door is hanging open when you reach the top and immediately you draw your wand, held low and concealed at your side as you cautiously enter.

It's two steps before the blackthorn and Veela hair wand flies out of your hand. You whip around, fists drawn up, searching for the intruder.

"Thank Merlin you never went for the whole Auror gig," the voice says low in your ear. You can't help it- you scream. A hand clamps over your mouth as the person steps into the fading light filtering through the dirty window; Lysander Scamander is laughing, the bastard.

You stare a moment, struggling to comprehend that he's here, in India, not England and he's here, in your flat. Then your face cracks into a grin and you jump, wrapping your arms around him tight enough to suffocate. He catches you, (and you _knew_ he would) and gives a small kiss to your forehead.

He puts you down and you give him an affectionate smack, "You bastard! You scared me half to death, you did!" He grins sheepishly at you, shrugging. You flick on the light by the door and shuffle over to the area you call your kitchen, pulling two butterbeers from the refrigerator.

"So," you say handing the bottle to him, "does anyone know you're here?"

He takes a sip and nods, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "I told James- well, I was going to tell Roxy but I ran into him first and I didn't want to deal with the huge altercation that would ensue if I skipped Christmas at the Burrow."

"I am," you tell him.

"I know, why do you think I came? I couldn't let you celebrate alone."

...

It's his hand that guides you to your room (bed) Christmas Eve and you decide that Mary Bones was right all along.

fin.


End file.
